The Genii of the mountains seemed to be casting their magic spell over the soft, sunny landscape. Those troops of workers, early sunbeams and crystal dewdrops, hung the curtains of. the forest with moist, scintillating pearls, whose brilliancy seen through the transparent veil of blue seemed another twilight sky, trembling with groups of silver stars. The air was pure and unpolluted; the birds sang from every field and forest. Flowers nodded good morning as we passed. Brilliant spikes of cardinal blossoms burned like coals against the green shrubs; foxgloves rang their purple bells with no one to hear; campanulas bluer than the sky decked the rocky ledges; where the wood lily, like a reigning queen, "seemed to have caught all the sunbeams of summer and treasured them in her heart of gold."
A thin layer of white mist still hid fair lakes that were waiting to mirror the sky. Down the blue mistiness of the valleys we beheld a far-flashing stream, whose silver course grew fainter and at last disappeared around the purple headlands. Far as the eye could see, the undulating masses of green hills stretched away until they towered far upward, printing their graceful flowing outlines on the distant horizon. The nearer hills rose on all sides like a billowy sea, with outcropping of gray stone breakers along their green crests. On the lower levels we saw thickets of young birch, hemlock and willows.
"Miles upon miles of verdant meadows, farms and forests seem to hang upon the sides of the mountains like a vast canvas or repose peacefully across the long sloping hills; pictures of sunny contentment and domestic serenity, scarcely conceivable in the lowlands." There are winding roads that rise as do the old stone buildings, one above the other until they are lost in the purple distance. What a wealth of cultivated fields and sunny pastures rise terrace-like on slopes far up their summits. There is always farmland enough to give picturesque variety, and woodland enough to give a wild touch and mellow charm when viewed from a distance.
Endless lines of old stone fences appear in the valleys and disappear over the rough hillside. Some are falling into ruin, others are firm and high, adding their charm to the picture. Old apple orchards were scattered here and there. The mossy trunks and decayed limbs told that many seasons had passed over their branches. Their owners have long since "gone the way of all the world." Not only the masters who planted those trees, but the houses that sheltered them have passed away forever. The trees no longer bear much fruit, but are still the homes of vast numbers of shy wood-folk.
What a ringing medley greeted us as we passed. The cuckoo was calling amid his caterpillar feasting. An indigo bunting from a tall maple sang his clear, sweet notes. The silvery phrases of the orchard oriole fell on the ear like a shower of "liquid pearls." No other songster save the vireo is so prodigal of his minstrelsy. Occasionally we caught the loud, querulous notes of the great crested flycatcher. Maryland yellow throats sang, "witchery, witchery, witchery" down among the bushy fence rows. Wren notes fell like silvery drops of water through the sunlit air, and redstarts made the place ring with their rich clear notes. Nature here was throbbing with warm, full life, gleaming with rich tints, and her exuberant energy and persistent force were daily working new miracles.
"Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers
And groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in the grass and flowers."
Along the road at various places people have balsam pillows for sale. We made no purchase, for why buy a pillow when the whole forest is ours to enjoy? We need only to smell the fragrance of balsam buds and our cares are smothered, and we pace along some mountain brook with buoyant step and happy heart that keeps time to its purling, liquid voice. Often we see these lovely murmuring trout brooks gleaming in hollows where quiet pools or glistening falls await the coming of the happy youth with a fishing rod across his shoulder. Old men, too, have found them out and grow young again when they spend a few days along their shady banks. They are wiser than Ponce de Leon, for they have found the Fountain of Youth among their native hills without going on a long journey.
We passed through Phoenicia, a small village in the valley of Esopus creek at the southern end of the famous Stony cove. "Stony cove has steep sides, whose frequent knife-like edges have been carved out by erosion; on either side are crags and high, serrated mountain peaks. Slide mountain, about ten miles southwest from Phoenicia, has an elevation of four thousand two hundred and thirty feet; being the highest in the Catskills.
About six miles from Phoenicia lies the village of Shandaken. Its altitude is one thousand and sixty-four feet. The village. takes its name from an early Indian settlement and valley, meaning in the Indian language, "Rushing Waters." It is here that the Bushkill and Esopus join, giving a reason for the name. The Shandaken tunnel is to be located here. This tunnel, contracted for by the city of New York, will cost twelve millions of dollars. It will connect the Schoharie river and the Gilboa reservoir with the Esopus and Ashokan reservoir."
We next entered a very picturesque country. True, the mountains did not rise so high, as mountains go, and did not affect one as do the sublimity and grandeur of the snow-clad Alps, yet the warm light falling here and there in streaks and bars on beautiful fern gardens that nodded and swayed in the cool forest depths, where springs gushed forth in crystal clearness, "brought that tone that all mountains have." We passed through Arkville, a village of six hundred people.